


The Taste of Submission

by LokiBitch07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dom/Sub, Choking, Collars, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, John!whump, M/M, Military Fetish, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape, Reluctant Sub!John, Sadism, Sherlock is one sick bastard., breath-play, dark!Sherlock, gun-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiBitch07/pseuds/LokiBitch07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom/Sub AU.<br/>In a world where everyone is classified as Dom / Sub early in their live, John Watson managed to cheat his way out and lives as a dom until he is injured in war.<br/>Cue: He gets caught and Sherlock gets his hands on an unbroken sub.<br/>Dark!Dark!Sadistic!Sherlock topping unwilling John.<br/>Not a happy story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Submission

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this is my fill for the winner of my A03 auction.  
> Thanks so much for allowing me to share this…  
> The request was dom/sub universe, unwilling John, military kink, boots, collars, mirrors.  
> I may have gone …slightly overboard with the prompt…
> 
> Please heed the warnings.  
> Like, read them once more and then a third time, just so you know what you are getting into.  
> Every now and then things flow from the bottom of my pitch-black heart and this story contains rape, humiliation, sadism and non-consensual BDSM play.  
> I mean I no way think that this is even close to a healthy dom-sub relationship.  
> It is not.  
> Also, please note that I put Sherlock into a Nazi uniform.  
> And no, I am not a white supremacist in disguise; I just think those guys were just really well dressed and in a fashion sense they are the hot suits along uniforms… There is a pic below and you will know what I mean. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

John had been able to hide his submissive status most of his life, with the thoughtful training from his dominant mother and sub father. It helped open many doors, being classified as a very mild dom, allowing John to join the army after finishing his doctorate.

Subs were not allowed in the front lines.

 

Of course someone would find out sooner or later.

 

John was surprised how little he was prepared for it when it finally did happen.

He had been injured in battle, and they must have run his dom-sub markings with his blood test.

 

Whatever had happened, John found himself bound and gagged as soon as he had healed, and brought to London.  They took him to a gentlemen’s club to a back room, where a very tall, correct looking man with a creepy smile had asked him to kneel.

John was forced to his knees, on a pillow between the legs of the man.

 

“Dr. Watson. I have heard of your quite incredible past and must congratulate you to being one of the most successful gender-traitor’s of the last two decades.”

 

John had his head forced down, his neck turning slippery with cold sweat.

“However, you intrigue me, so I have decided not to send you to a Rehabilitation camp, but to take your training into my own hands. You do realize that we have a lot of catching up to do, and I so very much like my sub virgins to be defiant.”

A strange smile widened the features of the man.

 

John struggled, moaning into his gag, panicking at the futility of his moves.

He needed to get away.

Get. AWAY!

 

With a snap of fingers John was lifted once more and brought back outside, where he was shoved unceremoniously into the waiting limo that had already brought him to the club.

 

 

Within an hour they had arrived at a mansion.

 

 

John groaned and shook his head when they pulled into the driveway.

This could not be happening.

Dr. John Hamish Watson was a low-presenting sub and never had too much trouble being calmly authoritative. His mother had realized his upcoming problems when she had first seen the test results when he was a child, and with bribes and careful upbringing John grew up very light dom. With the status came general human rights that were mostly prohibited to subs.

It meant he was free.

 

Now all of this changed.

 

John could feel the anger bubble up inside him against a corrupt system that enslaved almost half the population.

 

 

John was brought to a large room on the second floor, sporting high ceilings kept all in white with tall windows. The only furniture in the room were tastefully lacquered equipment in a gleaming red, from a Saint Andrew’s cross to a gynaecological chair, a suspended tiny cage, stocks, a mattress surrounded by different bondage materials, hooks in the floor and ceiling.

A body in the far corner was bound into stocks, muscles quivering, low moans coming from the form.

 

All of this made his situation even more real, and John struggled in earnest, pushing out his elbows, kicking his legs, throwing his head back.

But the two guys he was sandwiched between just kept walking until they arrived at a low frame, over which they bent him and secured him with white leather restraints to his ankles, knees and wrists, binding him tightly to the stock, his ass high in the air, head dangling downwards.

The bonds were tight enough for him not being able to struggle, but did not cut off blood circulations.

The men knew how to handle subs without leaving unnecessary harm.

 

 

 

Sherlock was furious.

 

Mycroft had bullied him into participating in a boring government affair that needed dealing with, and then had ridiculed him in front of others about his lack of domination skills as he was still without a sub.

 

He had brooded over a revenge plan for days when one of his homeless network stood in front of his door. “Master, we saw your brother having a new sub delivered apparently male gender-traitor in his forties. He was taken away in his limo.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know Master. Should be worth twenty quid, yeah?”

 

 

Yeah.

It had been worth the twenty.

 

 

Sherlock had pushed open the doors to Mycroft’s main play room, and had noted the new sub straight away.

Military pants. No shirt.

Faded tanlines.

Bullet wound in shoulder, fresh, maybe 6 months old.

Behaviour indicates a sub virgin, maybe even a sub-dom switch.

Gagged.

Shackled.

Reluctant.

 

Sherlock stepped up and bent over, smelling at the neck of the bound man beneath him.

He could see wide blue eyes staring up at him as he struggled harder when Sherlock dug his finger into the sandy-blond hair.

 

 

 

There was another sub bound in the corner, but this one evaded his eyes the moment he looked at her. She looked like she was in her early twenties, and had been with Mycroft for …three months already.

Even from this angle Sherlock could see the fine sheer of wetness between her thighs.

Arousal.

Full-on submissive.

Not what Sherlock was looking for.

 

He turned back to the blond man bound over the stock, struggling weakly as his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

The young dom crouched down in front of the struggling sub, grabbing a fistful of hair to pull back the head, staring into the widened blue eyes.

 

Sherlock stared at the man _(doctor, end thirties, dom-imposter, soldier, single, no long-term relationships…aversion against pain….)_ then he grinned.

“You will do.”

In one swift movement the young man stood, walking over the table where he chose a thick, heavy metal collar with a padlock in the back.

He kneeled in front of John one more time, slipping the cold metal around the groaning man’s throat, shutting it with an audible click.

 

It was wide enough to stretch the slave’s neck out, holding him in an awkward position.

 

Then Sherlock clipped a fine chain to the O-ring in the front, testing it with a quick pull.

John grunted behind his gag, his eyes on the tall, slender man.

Sherlock started to open the leather restraints with quick, sure fingers, and once both of John’s arms came free, the dom quickly bound them behind the weakly struggling man’s back.

He left the feet unchained, but kept the sub barefoot, and once John was fully free he pulled him up from the stock, pushing him onto his knees in one fluid motion.

 

While he held the slightly struggling sub in place, one finger pressing casually into the fresh shoulder scar, he pulled a cell phone from one of his coat pockets.

He clicked redial and waited it to ring.

“Holmes here, please send a cab with a sub-cage to the following address:….”

 

 

 

 

When Sherlock left the house with the stumbling ex-soldier tightly held by the arm, one of Mycroft’s body-guards/servants stepped into their way.

“Mr. Holmes. May I ask what you are doing with the new sub?”

 

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave and continued walking.

 

“You may not. Get out of my way, or I am going to tell Mycroft you fucked the girl tied in his playroom about…what…2 hours ago? Have a little affair going on there? Pretty sure not something you would want him to know, after she seems to be his current favourite, yes?”

 

The man’s face did not change, but he also did not stop the younger of the Holmes brother from pushing the slightly trembling blond sub into the small cage in the large boot of the taxi cab, closed it, and then climbed into the back seat.

 

The guard waited for the cab to to pull out of the driveway , then he took out a cell.

 

The number was saved under speed dial 1.

 

“Sir? He was here and took Watson just as you predicted.”

The voice on the other end sounded slightly amused, if that was possible coming from Mycroft Holmes.

“Good. Give him twelve hours, and then send Kevin by to check on them. If Sherlock is bored, he can take the sub straight to a training camp. Otherwise please have him give my brother the gift card to DOMS & SUBS.”

 

With that he hung up.

 

 

 

 

The cab ride was horrifying.

At least for John.

Crammed into a small, restrictive metal cage in the blackness of the boot of the cab, he could feel every corner, stone and brake right down to his bones.

He was quickly nauseated, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat, breathing slowly through his nose to not vomit.

He did not need to end up dead in the cage in a cab because he suffocated with his gag.

And so John Watson breathed.

In and out.

Slowly.

 

After what seemed like a life time, they arrived.

 

 

 

Everything was a bit of a blur.

 

John cringed when the boot opened, bright white light closing his eyes now accustomed to darkness, and he felt himself pulled onto the street, knees buckling for a moment as his feet hit the pavement, and then he is escorted like a fucking animal to a door in a row of houses.

His gaze wandered for a moment, and he could see he was in a large town, probably London, there was a Café….and then he was led into a dark hallway and upstairs.

John swayed, his body cramping from being tied down in strange positions for…well…days now….and his mind was still trying to catch up with what was happening.

To him.

To his life.

He had tried to imagine it in the past, what would happen if he, no, _when_ he got caught, but nothing had prepared him for actually being tied up and manhandled like he was less than a human being.

Nothing.

He was dragged up one flight of stairs, into an apartment where he was shoved to the floor as the tall man took of his coat.

 

“Ok. I believe you have no training, and we will commence immediately. Do you need to use the bathroom. Water? Anything?”

 

With quick hands John felt the gag dislodged from his mouth and he coughed at the dryness of it.

He took a couple of deep breaths, staring at the floor.

He could see the impatient tap of the man’s hand against his thigh.

John swallowed.

 

“Yes, bathroom and water, please.” He lifted his gaze and stared right into the eyes of the man towering over him, the cold metal of his heavy collar biting into his chin.

 

“Who are you?”

                                                

There was a smirk on the face of the man.

 

“My name is Sherlock. You will call me master.”

 

 

John was pulled off his feet and brought up another set of stairs, and then dumped unceremoniously on the tiled floor of the bathroom.

After John shakily did what he had to, under the glaring stare of Sherlock who hovered over him, he was told to strip. Anger welled up in John, but he had been beaten enough in the last days and weeks that he knew resistance was futile.

Sherlock watched him with cold eyes, then quickly bound his hands behind his back once more, adding thick leather bands sporting O-rings just above his elbows and his knees. Then he took off the large, restricting collar and replaced it with a thick, silver chain that John instantly recognized as a choke collar.

 

John was dragged into a bedroom, placed on the floor where the short chain of the choke collar bound him to the foot of the bed. Sherlock kneeled next to him and let his fingers lovingly run over John Watsons face, studying the wide eyes over the spit-soaked gag.

“So, John, I heard you were a military man. I have just the thing for you. Stay tight, and I will be back, and then I am going to make sure that you will never forget who your first dom was.”

 

John shivered at the cold words spoken in the dark, smoky voice, and he could do nothing but struggle weakly in his bonds as the tall man left the room.

 

Horrified.

 

John knew what was going to happen.

Of course he did.

There were certain aspects that were flexible in a dom-sub relationship, depending on the master, but the glint in the eye of …Sherlock…had shown him that he would not be one of the lucky ones to have a careful and loving dom.

The cruel smirk had confirmed that John would be in a world of pain.

He fought with all his might against his restraints, hands bound tightly behind his back, the short chain around his neck tugging painfully into the soft flesh of his throat, closing slowly and left him gasping for breath. It opened up a little once he stopped pulling, but stayed tight.

 

He was going nowhere.

 

So John Watson placed his head on the cold, wooden floor and tried working on the breathing exercises he had learned in his years in military service, calming his fast-beating heart, swallowing the bitter taste of defeat and panic that had risen in his throat.

He was not the first one and by any means would not be the last to ever find himself in this position, and all he could do was take it with the little dignity that he had left.

 

x

 

Sherlock was excited.

He would not let it show, especially not to the bound slave in his bedroom, but this one was special, an old, war-proven hero to break in, and a rare treat if there ever was one.

Sherlock had always had a fable for resisting, fighting slaves, but in a place where any sub was trained to take his place from their early teens, they hardly ever put up a real fight.

 

This one had been free for DECADES.

 

A shiver of anticipation ran Sherlock’s spine and then curled in his growing erection.

 

He would be such a treat to break.

 

With quick fingers he opened up the uniform jacket he had acquired a couple of years ago, a real vintage piece from the Second World War.

German.

Sherlock had always been drawn to the sleek cut of the Nazi uniforms and lovingly ran his fingers over the crisp, black cotton. He quickly shed his clothes all the way down to his pants and then slowly, almost like a ritual, starting pulling on all the parts he had laid out.

Dark leather trousers that hugged his long, slim legs sinfully, a white, crisp short-sleeve cotton shirt adorned with heavy golden buttons and ornamental black finishing, black leather suspenders and long, latex gloves that he had custom made a couple of years back and fit his fingers like a second skin. He loved the impersonal touch they added, and he slowly ran them over his face, closing his eyes, imagining what they would feel like on the tied subs body.

Finally he carefully pulled on the adorned jacket, still sporting the insignia of the German soldier who used to wear it, thin silver chains running over the shoulder, clinking silently as he pulled it closed, closing each button slowly.

 

 

Then he opened the box holding the knee-high, black military leather boots, heavy and worn-in and laced them on, taking his time, his erection now straining against the leather of his pants, anticipating what always came when the uniform came into play.

 

Then he opened a small box and pulled out the black cap that went with the uniform jacket, caressing the shiny front, pushing his errand curls behind his ears before he pushed it onto his head.

 

He took the long, leather gunholder, drapped it over one shoulder , slipping it in place.

Taking the riding crop from a nearby table he went to get his computer.

 

 

 

When John heard the door open once more, he tried to keep his face to the ground, not indicating the fear he felt curl in the bottom of his stomach. Heavy boots walked past him, ignoring him, and he raised his eyes to catch a glimpse of the man he was to call master.

Tall, sleek, the uniform the man was wearing did nothing but flatter the man, black leather hugging his long limps, underlying the pale smoothness of his skin.

But John had seen enough documentaries, read enough about war history to know what Sherlock was wearing.

_Sick bastard._

 

He held himself still and watched silently as Sherlock put down a box, taking out a camera that he attached to a tripod, aiming it towards the bed, the connected it to a laptop computer that he placed on a chair, setting it so the open screen would be visible.

 

Sherlock pushed a button on the camera, the red light indicating that he had started recording, the room flashing up on the computer screen, and John could see himself bound on the floor, large eyes on the screen.

 

So it would begin.

 

Sherlock turned and walked towards Watson.

 

John’s breath hitched, but he forced himself to calm down, focusing on keeping his breath steady, trying not to stare at the shoes that faced him, only centimetres away from his face.

A black gloved hand came down to him, then John could feel the leather bands on his arms and knees connected to each other with chains before his hands were released.

He was now forced to kneel on the floor, unable to stand due to the restrictive bindings, and then Sherlock released the buckle on the back of his head holding the gag in place, waiting for John to spit it out. Sherlock took hold of the chain attached to his collar, winding it around his hand a couple of times, giving it a short tug to make John raise his head, get up to his knees, wait for his masters orders.

 

It seemed like a long time where there was only heavy breathing in the room, then Sherlock’s dark voice shattered the silence.

 

“Lick my boots, soldier.”

 

John felt nausea collect in his throat, and he swallowed heavily.

He hesitated for a moment, earning him another sharp tug on the chain that choked him, then he slowly lowered his front arms, face hovering over the heavy boots, eyes lingering on the dark leather. These boots had been worn outside before, and even though they were kept in good condition, he could see the specks of dirt and water stains clearly on the surface.

He lowered his mouth, connecting it with the leather, nuzzling it slowly, tasting the smokey, slightly bitter flavour of the dark surface.

 

“Use your tongue, soldier.”

 

John hesitated, and he heard the whistle of the riding crop before he felt the sharp sting on his back, jolting back from the pain, closing off the collar around his neck painfully cutting of his air.

 

Panic and then anger welled up in John Watson at the very quick punishment to his slow reaction, realizing that the man above him was going to hurt him more than he strictly needed to.

 

 

Sherlock had swung the crop light, just a taste of the punishment to come, meant to make John work faster than he had before.

The reaction he got was very satisfying, and exactly as he had hoped for.

John struggled at the slap, backed off, closing the chain around his neck.

Sherlock could see from his blazing eyes and the bitter line of his mouth, that John had crossed the line he had set for himself, and that he would now resist.

 

Sooner than Sherlock had anticipated, but all the better for it.

 

Perfect.

 

John struggled, trying to inch backwards, but as his breath was cut of he stilled, breathing heavily, face to the ground.

Sherlock lifted the riding crop one more time and let it go down on Watsons back and exposed backside, this time meant to hurt, raising red, angry welts in its way.

 

“I said LICK, slave.”

 

John breathed heavily, clearly struggling in his mind, then he inched forward once more, his pink tongue connecting with the heavy boot, running it along in a long, wet stripe.

Sherlock grinned and adjusted his cock that had thickened once more in his pants.

Oh yes, this was going nicely.

 

John shuffled forward a little, bitterness clogging his throat, his back and ass burning, the chain that had dug into his skin around his neck a hot reminder of what he was now.

But he knew that patience was one of the virtues he would have to rely on from now on.

He had many, many years to prepare himself for this situation, and he had decided that following his dom’s orders would be the best action.

For some reason, now that he was here, on the floor, it was much harder to do than he could have ever imagined. His tongue rasped over the leather, tasting of shoe cream and dirt and sweat, salty on his tongue, working along the sides before he slowly inched closer, working up the long shaft that went up the tall man’s legs.

 

“Now the other one.” Sherlock’s voice was heavy, panting slightly.

 

John bit his tongue and shuffled over, leaving the gleaming wet leather behind and started on the second boot, his mind focusing on the task in front of him.

 

He had killed people in war.

12 of them.

Shot them, preferably in the head.

He would not hesitate to now do the same if he could.

 

“Enough.” The words were accompanied by a harsh tag on the leash.

John stopped abruptly, letting his head hang, breathing heavy.

 

“Open my trousers, soldier”

 

_Fuck._

Of course this would happen, but somehow he had hoped…not so quickly.

But maybe he could bring Sherlock off here and now and be done with it.

John doubted it though.

 

He struggled to force his body to his knees, careful not to touch his…master.

John was not stupid. He knew the game.

When he tried to raise his hands to open Sherlock’s fly, he noted that the bindings that connected his arms to his thighs was too short, and grimly he raised his eyes to the large bulge straining in the tight leather.

Mouth then.

Fine.

 

He leaned forward, lips running over the bulge to nuzzle into the flap that closed over the zipper, knowing he was stimulating the man without wanting to, but also knowing that it was better to do what he wanted.

John Watson had treated many subs that had not followed orders.

Too many.

He was not going to end up on a slab.

No sir.

 

He tried curling his tongue around the nipple of the zipper, feeling the hot gaze of Sherlock on the top of his head, tasting the cold metal, unable to get a hold of it. John tried using his teeth, shuffling on his knees to get a better angle, but to no avail.

 

He had seen so many slaves open zippers in the same way before, how could this be so hard?

 

He tried for a while, feeling useless, until finally Sherlock stepped back, huffing at the wasted effort of the blond man at his feet, giving him a sharp slap on the face.

 

With a quick motion Sherlock opened his trousers and pulled his mostly erect cock from his pants, then dug his gloved fingers into the sandy blond hair of the sub before him.

 

“You know what to do, soldier. Make it good and I will not punish you for failing your last command.”

 

A gloved finger dug into the side of John’s mouth then Sherlock pushed his cock into between the wet lips, thrusting in too fast and too deep for the man to get accustomed to it.

Sherlock shortened the chain to the collar, holding it tight so the sub could not back off and forced himself as far into the mouth as he could, feeling the tense throat closed off to him as Watson started to cough and gag at the length, not able to handle the thick hot rod in his mouth.

Sherlock spread his hand on the back of his neck and pulled him in, not giving him any way to escape and John’s hand fell on the tall dom’s thighs to hold himself steady as Sherlock pulled out and then pushed in with one rough thrust, forcing his way down the soldier’s throat, making him gag on the hot, thick flesh.

He laid his head back and closed his eyes as the throat closed around him convulsively, and then Watson started to panic, pushing himself back with his hands as he started to choke, straining against the hand that held him in place, black panic clouding his mind as he tried to gasp for air.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, then tightened the choke collar with a sharp tug.

“None of that, soldier.”

However he thrust in shallowly a couple of times before ramming back in, dropping the chain as he laid both hands on the sides of the sub head and fucked the throat in earnest, deep and hard, teeth grazing the bottom of his cock as John struggled, and with a sharp hiss he pulled back, throwing the slave onto the floor.

 

“Useless piece of shit.” Sherlock’s voice was hard and steady.

Next time he would need to use a spider gag until Watson had learned to take a good throat fuck.

However there would be more time for that later.

 

For now he was impatient to finally claim what was going to be his.

 

He watched the sub on the floor, gagging, strands of stomach acid and drool pooling on the wooden floor, a sheer layer of sweat painting the shivering body.

 

Oh yes, this would be delicious.

 

Shifting the slave onto the bed and tying him down proved to be almost disappointingly easy.

Sherlock had seen the fire in Watson’s eyes, but he drew the conclusion from the man’s heavy limps and hanging head that he had decided to submit to his fate…for now.

That would make it even sweeter to make the man scream.

 

Sherlock had placed him on the bed facing the camera, shoved three pillows under his belly to raise his ass high in the air and bound his arms on his back. He took of the leather cuffs around thighs and arms but instead forced the slightly struggling man into a wide spreader bar, opening him up to his dom.

 

 

John was face down on the duvet, head pressed into the soft cotton, forcing himself to breathe steadily. He realized that he was not bound to the bed, but the uncomfortable position he was in made it very clear what was to come next, and he forced himself to relax.

 

_I will be subordinate, I will not fight, I will not struggle, I will not beg…._

He kept repeating the mantra in his head, hoping it would keep himself from unnecessary pain and humiliation. He also knew that most subs were trained for months, if not years before they were passed to their dom, and that he has a serious disadvantage on his hands.

John felt the bed behind him dip in slightly, and he tensed, closing his eyes.

 

_I will be subordinate, I will not fight, I will not struggle, I will not beg…._

“Face to the left, soldier. I want you to watch me.” The dark voice was clearly used to giving orders, but John could hear a cold glee in it.

Slowly he turned his head, faced with a large mirror on the other side of the bed he had not noticed before, seeing himself naked, bound, ass high, legs spread wide.

Once more, sickness flooded through his stomach.

 

He saw Sherlock grinning at him through the reflection and forced his face into a blank canvas.

He would not let the bastard see his discomfort.

 

“Tell me, soldier, are you a virgin?”

 

John just stared at the man, and his wicked grin on those angular features.

Then the riding crop hit him with full force on his testicles.

 

John let out a scream that softened into small sobs.

It was one of the worst pains he had ever felt, running up his spine and down to the soles of his feet, and then he threw up small amounts of liquid onto the duvet.

His hair was grabbed and his head was pulled back, almost lifting him off the bed.

 

“When I ask you a question, you will answer, soldier. Are. You. A. VIRGIN?”

 

Sherlock fondled his dully throbbing balls as he asked the question, underlying each word with a slight pull.

John sobbed dryly, forcing the bile that was left in his stomach to stay in place.

“Yes Sir, MASTER, please, Master, stop, please, please, please….”

He knew he was begging, knew he was crying, but could not do anything against it.

 

Sherlock pushed his head back into the duvet, now sticky with the small puddle of his own sick.

 

“Good, slave, very good. I had almost hoped you were a whore, but this will be just as much fun.”

John groaned, rubbing his tear-streaked face in the duvet, forcing himself to be silent but failing.

 

“Soldier, do you know what this is?”

 

Slowly John turned his head, small sobs still hiccupping through his body. He stilled when he saw what was in the hand of Sherlock Holmes.

It was a gun.

An old gun, nevertheless, but he was not sure what type.

“I….I am not sure, Master, it is a gun, a pistol ….Please…”

 

Sherlock laughed low, under his breath, as he pulled a small bottle of lubricant from the side of the bed and squirted a generous amount onto his latex glove.

 

“It is a Husqvarna made Pistol, 1940. You should know your weapons better, soldier, I am disappointed.”

 

 

 

He grinned at the terrified man staring at him through the mirror, and then he leaned forward, spreading John’s ass cheeks further and pushed the cold barrel against John’s hole who tensed, whimpering under his breath.

 

_I will be subordinate, I will not fight, I will not struggle, I will not beg…_

_._

Sherlock ignored him and pushed the cold metal into the straining slave’s body.

John wailed as the barrel was pushed against his hole and then forced in, trying to keep the invasion from happening, to keep the foreign object from entering him, then there was a hot burn as the gun entered his rectum, the sharp little protrusion in the front ripping him painfully, and then it was in him, the slender shaft as small as one finger, but so much colder and Sherlock pushed and pulled it in a slow thrusting motion.

 

He leaned forward, pushing the gun hard against his straining ass as he whispered into John’s ear:

 

“Tell me soldier, what do you think would happen if I pulled the trigger now? Letting a bullet rip through your intestines? Watching you bleed out slowly, over hours, while I fuck you until you die? Would you like that to happen, soldier? Would you?”

 

There was another sharp thrust, and John whimpered.

He could feel a devastating hysteria bubble up in him, and took all his effort to keep it in place, keep it in check .The madman would not have a bullet in the old gun, would he? WOULD HE?

 

“No Master. Please, don’t, Master.”

 

John had finally realized that not begging and not struggling would not work with Sherlock, a Sadist if he had ever seen one, so he would need to change his strategy.

John Watson decided to let it all out.

Scream as loud as he could, cry if he needed, beg for mercy and hope that the sick bastard would not kill him.

 

The gun plunged into his straining body once or twice more, painfully dragging at the inner walls of his tender rectum, and then it was pulled out.

 

“You bleed easily, soldier.”

 

John fisted his hands on his back, but let out a whimper.

He could feel hot blood run down one of his legs, and he tried to focus on it.

Hold on to sanity one way or another, and this way was as good as any.

 

X

 

Sherlock watched the slaves straining under him and he grinned to himself.

There was so much more he wanted to do to Watson, finger him, fist him till he screamed, cover his writhing body in small cuts, beat him to an inch of his life.

But all of that could be done later.

For now…well, he had waited long enough.

Waited forever for something like this sub, and he wanted to wait no longer.

 

Sherlock took his heavy, dark purple cock into his hand and massaged large amounts of lubricant into the hot flesh, groaning at the feeling of the slippery latex against his sensitive skin.

He knew John was not prepared, he knew he was large and thick, and he would make the slave feel every single centimetre of it.

He would make him wish he had never tried to hide who he was.

Fuck the resistance out of him.

 

He placed the thick head against the perineum, slid it up and down a couple of times to feel the hot, quivering flesh shiver beneath him and then he pushed in.

 

John screamed.

 

“NO, NO, NO, STOPPPPPP….”

 

Sherlock grinned as he felt the head of his cock pop through the first, tightly clenched sphincter, and then gave another rough thrust to break through the second one.

The shivering, wailing sub beneath him just turned him on more, and he looked down, watching as he pushed in, keeping it slow for his own sake as well as well as that of the slave who tried to get away, his body convulsing, and he observed as his thick cock slid further into the tight flesh, the anal ring hugging his thickness tightly, sliding deeper and deeper into the hot flesh that clenched so hard around him.

 

“So tight soldier, always been too good to have someone fuck your ass? Too good to bottom? Well, I will show you how it is done, and you will never forget, will you, soldier?”

 

The only response was a low whimper as he dragged his cock along the tender, clenched muscles and finally he bottomed out, pumping slowly to feel the tightness and how he would break it open.

Sherlock continued to rock back and forth, then leaned forward, biting hard into the golden shoulder of the man beneath him, drawing blood, lapping it up as he let go.

 

“Look at the mirror, soldier.”

 

He did not wait for the sub to respond and forced the head to the side with a sharp tug on his blond hair, looking into the wide, teary eyes that stared back at him through the reflection.

Sherlock twirled his hips, watching closely as more tears welled up in pain, as John bit his lip until a small, thin trickle of bright red blood trickled down his chin.

 

“Good boy, that is good.”

 

Sherlock shifted back up, now holding the chain in one hand and the other steadied on the hip of the man beneath him and pulled out, watching as his cock emerged from the tight sheath and then he pushed back in with one sharp thrust, forcing a wail from the slave.

It was glorious.

He pulled back and pushed back in, the tightness around him loosening slowly but still holding his cock well, blood and slick easing the way and he set a sharp rhythm of deep thrusts, each of them pulling a delicious sound from the sub who was now struggling more under him as if he could escape.

 

“Shhhhh….” Sherlock leaned forward once more, leaning on one of his hands while pulling on the choking collar, forcing Watson back to meet his thrusting cock while slowly cutting of his air supply.

 

John had stopped looking into the mirror, eyes now blindly roaming the room as the cock destroyed his insides, hot pain pulling and pushing, like glass shards on a stick, more painful than he had ever imagined, and then he was pulled up by the chain and he could not breathe…

 

John Watson opened his eyes, panic now fully taking over as he gasped for air while his body was rhythmically pounded into the mattress, hard and punishing, his hands bound on his back no way to release the mounting pressure on his windpipe as he struggled harder, speeding up the hard, harsh pushes inside him, burning him, destroying him from the inside out.

Then his vision slowly started to cloud over, he knew that he was begging once more, a never-ending whisper of “Stop, please, oh god, please…please….”, just resulting in faster and faster movements as Sherlock pulled out all the way and plunged back in, fucking him hard and fast, without mercy.

 

When he felt his vision blacken his limps were heavy, sinking deep into the mattress.

 

_Good God, I have been in two wars and I am going to die here today…._

 

Sherlock gripped the quivering flesh beneath him tightly, digging his fingers into it, twisting his hips sharply as he leaned forward, pushing his whole body into the straining sub beneath him, forcing the rest of the air from John’s lungs as he slowly ceased struggling.

John felt the heaviness on his back and the rhythmic thrusts in his ass, but the pain seemed very far, very distant now, and then suddenly he was released, gulping sweet, precious air into his lungs.

 

John took deep breaths, like someone drowning, focusing on the sweet sensation of oxygen once more flooding his system as Sherlock once more picked up his hard, relentless pounding, pulling him back to his burning arse as the man sped up and then once more tightened his grip on the choking collar and pulled it closed once more.

“No….please…” John knew he was whispering and that Sherlock would not be able to hear him as he panted loudly against his ear, hot breath over his wet cheeks, and then he sped up more, fucking as hard and fast and then the dom let out a long groan as he came, painting his insides with hot semen, claiming him, marking him, defiling him.

The noose loosened once more as Sherlock panted, his cock twitching as it continued to pump into the sub.

John collapsed as Sherlock pulled out in a flood of blood and semen.

 

Holmes straightened himself, gave the silent sub a sharp slap on the arse that got him no better response than a small twitch and he smoothed his jacket with his hand.

 

“You are a good fuck, soldier.”

 

He leaned over and pushed three fingers into the tightened hole, drawing an agonized wail from John, pushing in hard and forcefully before drawing out once more, scooping up the white liquid with bright red streaks, spreading it over his fingers.

 

He stood up, leaving the bed, cock still hanging from his open trousers.

 

Facing the slumped down slave, face red and puffy, covered in tears and snot, he gripped John’s chin and once more forced him to look at him.

 

Without a bat of his eyes he shoved his fingers covered in the milky liquid into the subs mouth, swirling them around, watching as more tears collected in the corner of his eyes.

 

Sherlock leaned forward and John knew he would never forget the deep, husky voice that whispered into his ear: “And this is what submission tastes like, soldier. And you will never forget it. “

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
